I was awakened in my dorm by my friend Mykel offering me a stale cinnamon bun (from the heart) and a large glass of ginger lemon tea. This was captured before I was cognitive of his presence, and aforementioned baked goods.
The beloved frenchman beyond the no-mans-land bunk between us left me for Chitrakoot; though not without two weeks of night owl comraderie smoking on the balcony, and not without a note folded on a scrap piece of paper reading "Bon Anniversaire."
Outside the Vishnu, we rendevoused with Ursula/Rani; my favourite cow in the old Varanasi area. Her proper name is dependent on whether or not you ask us, who have tagged her identity exclusive of exisiting beyond us; and Rani, her homeland, sacred, milk-praising name prevalent since birth. Rani Kapoor is hot shit in Bollywood; though their facial features differ.
Rani/Ursula exceeds my age, but what a lovely cow. She gets all my guava remnants assuming I'm not intercepted by monkeys.
I had breakfast at the orange Shiva garage where they have something resembling real coffee (it's been a long time), and real brown bread. Now it's closed for the hot, hot heat, so I hope the staff enjoys their wedding in Nepal.
I deemed, after much procrastionation, that on my birthday I was going to return to my most beloved rail bridge as discovered with a friend on my last embellishment in Varanasi. So Mykel and I took a boat across the river with my favourite ghatside chai vendor, Imo; and Natalie, who's birthday was a few days prior. Her facetious demand to Imo for cake seemed to actually result in one, which read "Happy Birthday Naylie". Darling. So it was all a fairytale; but kept grounded by the half burnt cow carcus floating near our boat.
Otherwise, frivolous and fun.
Even better than pin the tail on the donkey.
Once we got to the sandbar, Imo and Natalie split in pursuit of Imo's kite.
Mykel and I continued our pilgrimage to the bridge on the rather untrampled side of the Ganga. This was reflected by an Indian couple in the public taboo of a full wet-kiss embrace, as well as a sadhu/yogi waving a stick at our foreign faces with what seemed like a lack of encouragment to our presence. At least the fitness runners and their short shorts stopped for a huff-and-puff hello.
Then my beloved bridge, to be extrapolated on later.
Post bridge, we emerged at the Kashi train station, passed the pony farm, and had paratha over Bollywood music at an establishment that also sold toilets. We supplemented afterward with Frooti, which is when we decided they probably misquoted us on the toilets.
My day ended with an Indian marriage proposal back on ghatside.
Of course, I accepted. It's going to be a June wedding.
* If my head/face is in any of these pictures, all photographic talent can be attributed to the very prestigious Mykel Garfinkel.
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